Beauty and the Earl

by Patricia Grasso

  “My lord, Her Highness sends her regrets,” Pebbles told him.

  The princess wasn’t sulking. She was avoiding him.

  He had hurt her feelings, and now she preferred to remain in her chamber. Did she believe they could marry and produce children with her hiding in her chamber?

  And then Miles knew. The princess would be leaving him. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

  No. He did not want her to leave.

  He did not want to pass his days alone.

  He did not want his life reduced to a solitary cup and saucer.

  “Hold dinner.” Leaving the dining room, Miles walked upstairs but paused in the corridor outside her chamber. He had not apologized to anyone in years and felt uncertain about comforting a young woman.

  Before he could talk himself out of it, Miles knocked on the door. He heard her call, touched his mask, and stepped inside.

  Amber registered momentary surprise and then, like a true aristocrat, schooled her features into an expressionless mask. “Good evening, my lord.” She looked away. “I apologize for not joining you, but my headache is no cause for alarm.”

  Miles sauntered across the bedchamber and stood in front of her chair where she could not avoid his gaze. He almost laughed out loud when she evaded him by returning her attention to the handkerchief she had been embroidering.

  “I would never have guessed you were a coward.”

  Amber faltered for a moment but recovered her composure quickly. “Bravery is the child of desperation,” she said, without looking up.

  “How philosophical of you.” Miles watched her jab the needle into the delicate cloth. “I thought you sewed poorly.”

  “I do.” Amber attacked the handkerchief with the needle and yanked the thread through the cloth.

  “I hope you aren’t pretending the handkerchief is me.”

  That made her smile. “My lord—”

  “Miles,” he corrected her.

  She ignored his correction. “I have decided to return to London. Sooner rather than later.”

  “Are you leaving because I shouted at you?”

  “I am intruding on your privacy.”

  Miles stared at her. She was saying what he had been thinking yesterday. Only now—“I bluster at people around me. You really ought to bluster back.”

  “Blustering would be unseemly for a princess,” Amber said, refusing to look at him. “Especially a princess in my position.”

  “What position is that?”

  Amber looked up, her startling violet gaze meeting his. “A penniless, unacknowledged bastard.”

  His expression softened on her. “You are too hard on yourself.”

  “I see myself as the world sees me.” Amber returned to her mutilation of the handkerchief.

  “I do not see you like that.”

  “You do not see me at all.” Amber set the handkerchief down and looked at him. “You mourn for your wife. An arrangement between us can never work.”

  “I see you all too clearly,” Miles said, his tone rueful. “Brenna has been dead four years.”

  “Nevertheless, you mourn for her. I have no wish to intrude.”

  “Forgive my temper,” Miles apologized. “If you stay a few more days, I promise not to bluster at you again. I do want to become better acquainted.”

  Amber stared at him so long that Miles thought she would refuse. Finally, she gave him a tentative smile and inclined her head.

  “Will you dine with me?”

  “I have not changed for dinner.”

  Miles offered his hand. “Please dine with me.”

  “Will you eat or sip your wine?”

  “I will eat with you.”

  “Will you remove your mask?”

  “No.”

  Accepting this minor concession, Amber placed her hand in his. Together, they walked downstairs to the dining room.

  “I don’t think I’ve told you about my family,” Miles said, as a footman began to serve their meal. “My younger sister Isabelle married John Saint-Germain, the Duke of Avon. They have been blessed with six children. By the way, John introduced me to Rudolf.”

  “I love children,” Amber said. “I always wanted brothers and sisters.”

  “You lived with your cousins.”

  “Only Rudolf would play with me or take me places,” Amber told him. “The others did not want a female listening to their conversations.”

  Miles smiled at that. “I can see that your presence would inhibit man-talk. Who else cared for you?”

  A smile of remembrance touched her lips. “Hilda, my uncle’s cook, taught me to bake. Ivan, my uncle’s gardener, taught me everything he knew.”

  Hilda the cook? Ivan the gardener? What kind of companions were those for a princess?

  “What about friends your own age?” Miles asked.

  “I already explained the circumstances of my birth and my family history.” Amber dropped her gaze to her plate. “In my society, I was not considered an appropriate companion.”

  “I did not intend to sadden you,” Miles said, his hand covering hers.

  “You did not sadden me.” Amber lifted her gaze to his. “I was mostly happy. I suppose I did not know any better.”

  Miles flicked a wrist at Pebbles, who whispered to the footman. The two retainers left the dining room and closed the door behind them.

  “What about the czar?” Miles asked.

  “Every New Year, Czar Alexander sends me a letter and a gift,” Amber said, her expression becoming animated. “When I was twelve, the czar sent me his miniature by way of an artist who painted my miniature. The czar wanted to see what I looked like. I cherish his miniature and his letters more than anything else.”

  That surprised Miles. “You never met him?”

  “The czar is much too important and busy to grant insignificant me an interview,” Amber defended her father against his tone of surprised censure. Her smile faltered as she said, “I had hoped . . .” She shrugged, leaving her thought unfinished.

  “What had you hoped?”

  “I thought the czar would send for me when I became marriageable at eighteen. He never did, though.”

  Miles suffered the urge to throttle the unfeeling monster who had snubbed his own daughter. “If the czar had sent for you,” he said, “we would never have met.”

  Amber blushed. “I have been talking too much.”

  “I like the sound of your voice.”

  Miles stared at her hauntingly beautiful face. He had been alone more than four years. She had been alone forever.

  “Why did you leave Russia?” he asked. “And why do you need a husband?”

  “I would prefer to discuss that another time,” she told him, her gaze pleading for understanding. “I promise I am a virgin.”

  “I did not mean to imply otherwise.” Miles let the topic die. “I enjoyed our waltz this morning.”

  “I enjoyed it, too.”

  The remainder of their evening passed pleasantly. Much later, when the household had settled down for the night, Miles paced his bedchamber and wondered what to do about Amber. He would always love Brenna, but he could not let the princess go.

  Unable to resist the image of her asleep, Miles donned his mask and crossed to the connecting door. After listening for a moment, he stepped inside her bedchamber. Again, the princess slept with the bed curtains open and a night candle burning.

  On silent feet, Miles advanced on the bed and stared at the face of an angel framed by silvery hair. Temptation rode him hard. Trying not to awaken her, he drew the coverlet back, and his breath caught raggedly in his throat.

  The same impudent breast with its pink nipple had escaped the nightgown’s bodice. With one finger, he caressed the silken swell and glided his fingertip across the nipple, making her sigh in her sleep.

  She was soft. Incredibly, exquisitely soft.

  Miles noticed something in her hand and took a closer look. The princess was clutching the miniature of
a handsome older man. Too old to be Sergei. And then he realized the man was Czar Alexander, the father she had never met.

  For the first time in four years, Miles felt pity for someone other than himself. He drew the coverlet up and touched his lips to her forehead, inhaling deeply of her scent. Lilacs, sunshine, and woman.

  Miles glanced at the burning candle. The princess feared the dark. He feared a fire in the night.

  Miles snuffed the candle, throwing the bedchamber into darkness. He would leave his door ajar. If the princess awakened in the night, he would comfort her.

  Chapter 4

  Perfect, pink-tipped peaks—tempting him, enticing him, beckoning him.

  “Good God,” Miles muttered, wishing he had never seen her naked breast.

  Sitting at his desk, Miles tried to concentrate on the numbers in his business ledger but saw her breast in his mind’s eye. He forced himself to focus on the ledger.

  Apparently, the lush roundness of the number eight had appealed to his senses. He had drawn dark nipples in the middle of each circle that formed the number.

  How would he explain this artwork to his London clerks when they arrived at Arden Hall for their next quarterly meeting? What came next? Would his sevens and eights start fornicating? He would be bankrupt before the first snow fell.

  Bedding the princess would solve his problem, but he could not do that unless they struck a bargain. A serious discussion between him and the princess seemed imminent.

  Brought low by a teat. Disgusted with himself, Miles tossed the quill down. He should keep his distance from her. She had him dreaming about intimacies best forgotten.

  He had loved his wife. Completely. Exclusively. Forever.

  The scent of sunshine and lilacs, the czar’s miniature clutched in a small hand, and the burning night candle had conspired to soften his heart. He was becoming much too attached to the princess. Her beauty and her innocence were enchanting, weaving a web of hope and desire around him, entangling him in her life.

  Concentrating on the ledger proved impossible. Miles surrendered to his restlessness and wandered to the window. A creature of shadows for more than four years, he had the unexpected urge to feel the sun on his face.

  Miles opened the window and inhaled deeply of the early summer day. A warm, dry breeze carried the mingling scents of roses and lavender and lilacs. His gardens were a paradise, lush shades of green adorning primary and pastel-colored flowers.

  Faint sounds wafted through the air to him. The soprano tone with a violin pitch meant the princess was playing the mandolin. Her song held a bewitching charm. The melody flowed smoothly into elemental sounds—falling water, rustling leaves, waltzing wildflowers.

  Miles touched his mask and left his study. Pebbles, wearing a rapturous expression on his face, stood in the foyer with the door open and listened to the music.

  “Where is the princess?” Miles asked.

  “Her Highness is serenading the rosebush.”

  “What rosebush?”

  “The sick one,” Pebbles answered. “Her Highness told the gardener she could restore its health with her music and love.”

  Miles stared at his retainer a long moment and then, shaking his head, walked outside. His whole household had been behaving oddly since the princess arrived.

  In the courtyard, Miles paused to savor the warmth of the sun on his face. He could not imagine why he had hidden in the shadows for so long. And then the princess beckoned him with her mandolin. He walked around the mansion but paused to touch his mask before entering the rear garden. The music stopped abruptly, and then he heard the princess.

  “You seem more relaxed,” she said. “Do you feel better?”

  To whom was she speaking?

  Miles stepped into the garden.

  Amber sat on a blanket near the rosebush. She leaned close to it and plucked a few leaves. “That did not hurt. Tomorrow, I will sing you a song about a nightingale who loved a rose. You can imagine the problems involved in that relationship.”

  Miles smiled. The princess was speaking to his rosebush.

  “I see another friend.” Amber set the mandolin aside and approached a solitary flower beneath a nearby tree. “Shy pansy, have you no friends to keep you company? I know how lonely life is without friends.”

  I know loneliness, too, Miles thought. Had fate sent him a lady to ease the pain in his heart?

  “Amber?” Miles started across the garden. When she looked at him, he felt his spirits lift as if an angel had touched him. An angel with the body of a goddess.

  “Good day, my lord.”

  Amusement lit his dark eyes. “You were speaking to the rosebush.”

  “Like all of God’s creatures,” Amber told him, “plants thrive with love.”

  “Would you care to walk to the river?”

  “I would love to walk anywhere with you.”

  Miles gestured to the woodland. “The path to the river lies through those trees.”

  Placing her hand in his, Amber walked beside him across the manicured lawn. She glanced sidelong at his chiseled profile. From this angle, the earl appeared uninjured. His nose was straight, his lips full, his chin strong.

  They passed through a row of enormous oaks that separated park from woodland. The path was cool and shaded and perfumed, wildflowers and moss scenting the air. Accompanied by broadleaved beechwoods and ash, long-lived oaks crowded the woodland. Silver-white birch trees marked their path to the river where graceful willows offered shade.

  “What a peaceful spot,” Amber said. “Do you come here often?”

  “I haven’t been here in a long time.” Miles removed his jacket and placed it beneath the steeping branches of a willow.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Amber sat on the jacket and then patted the spot beside her in invitation.

  “Escaping the house feels good,” Miles said, accepting her invitation.

  Amber made no reply. She assumed he had been sitting in the dark for four years.

  “Why is your home called Arden Hall?” she asked, opting for a safe topic. “Your name is Montgomery.”

  “Arden Hall belonged to my mother’s family. She was an heiress. Since her children would be Montgomerys, my father decided the manor should remain Arden Hall, and the Arden family would never be forgotten.”

  “Your father sounds like a generous man.”

  “Yes, he was that.” Miles stood and walked a few paces toward the river. He picked up a stone and skimmed it across the top of the water. “I haven’t done that since my boyhood.”

  Amber heard the smile in his voice. She stood and walked toward him. Purposely, she positioned herself on the injured side of his face. “You have inherited your father’s generosity.”

  “You believe I am generous?”

  “You have offered me your hospitality.”

  Miles glanced at her. “Prince Rudolf can be quite persuasive.”

  “Do you regret opening your home to me?” Amber asked, and then wished to recall her words. One should never ask a question unless prepared to hear a truthful answer.

  “On the contrary, I enjoy your company,”

  Relief swept through her. The earl had spoken the words she wanted to hear, but had he spoken truthfully or politely? She would think before speaking in the future.

  “Tell me, Princess. If you could be granted one wish, what would it be?”

  Amber dropped her gaze, undecided whether to speak honestly or not. She did not want to frighten him.

  “No wishes?”

  “I have always wished for love.” She lifted her gaze to his. “I wanted to be loved for myself, not my so-called beauty.”

  “Most women would sell their souls for your face,” Miles remarked, skimming another stone across the water.

  “Then most women are fools to wish for something so fleeting,” Amber said, her tone mirroring her bitterness. “My beauty burdens me.”

  Miles turned to look at her. Their gazes touched. With one long fin
ger, he traced a path down the side of her cheek. “I never realized that life could be as difficult for a beautiful woman as it is for a plain one.”

  “Life can be difficult for everyone,” Amber said. “Misery makes no distinction between prince and pauper.”

  Miles inclined his head, accepting her philosophy.

  “For what would you wish?” she asked, already knowing his answer.

  “I would turn back time and have Brenna with me again.”

  “If that wasn’t possible?”

  “Until three days ago, I would have wished for death.”

  Amber tilted her head back to gaze fully into his face. “And now?”

  “Now I would wish for a woman to care for me despite my scars.” Miles inched his face closer to hers. “I want an heir.”

  He was going to kiss her.

  Amber trembled, her heart beating wildly. Excitement shot through her body and sparked to life in the pit of her stomach. The earl’s dark gaze held hers captive, and an instant later their breaths mingled.

  Firm and warm, his lips touched hers in a gentle kiss. He smelled fresh, like pine trees and mountain heather.

  Miles slipped an arm around her, drawing her against his body. His free hand moved to the back of her head and held her steady. His masculine essence—strength, power, dominance—surrounded her without threatening.

  His lips enticed her, persuading her to return his kiss. And when she did, the tempo of his kiss changed, becoming possessive and demanding. Hungry.

  Amber slid the palms of her hands up his chest to loop around his neck. She followed his lead, pressing herself against him, returning his kiss in kind. And then some.

  He captured her whole being, and the world ceased to exist for her. His lips, his hands, his body became her universe.

  Surrendering herself, Amber parted her lips at the first touch of his tongue. A throaty moan escaped her when he thrust his tongue inside her mouth, tasting her sweetness. A melting sensation in her lower regions fanned the spark of desire into a flame.

  Miles held her tighter, the hand at the small of her back dropping to her buttocks, pressing her against his arousal. The hand at the back of her head slid down her body to caress the rounded side of her breast through the thin material of her gown.